Scarlet Burn
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: 'Scott and John run into problems on an IR rescue. They can be whatever problems the author wants, but I really want to see the interaction between the pair when things get hairy.' My entry for the TIWF 2013 Ficswap Challenge. TV-verse.


'**Scott and John run into problems on an IR rescue. They can be whatever problems the author wants, but I really want to see the interaction between the pair when things get ****hairy.' **

**This was my entry for the recent 2013 TIWF Ficswap Challenge. This entry was requested by FABreader, and I hope that you lot enjoy it as much as she said she did.**

—**Just a warning for a bit of cursing, nothing explicit or rude; normal stubbed-my-toe, incredulousness stuff. ****Just for propriety's sake. —**

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

Pain-darkened blue eyes open and almost instantly slam shut again; the headache that caused the action beating a vicious tattoo on the back of the skull. It induces a wave of nausea and the terrible sensation of whirling vertigo, although the owner of said head is reasonably sure that he is laying still.

Scott groans as the rather shattered recollection of why he is on the floor comes back to him like a bolt of lightning, accompanied with the feeling of something that prevents him from taking a deep breath.

Deafening banging, the screeching of tortured wood and the sound of his own strangled yell echo across the moments and memory, and Scott struggles to recall how long exactly he's been unconscious.

Comprehension returns a little slower than realisation. He knows that he's obviously in a predicament, even the tiny flash of vision he got before he closed his eyes was enough to tell him that, but in truth; the position he's in at the moment hits him as hard as the blow that he figures he's taken to the head.

His emergency pack is digging into the side of his hip; Scott can feel it there now that he's paying attention, but it's more of an annoyance and irritation that it's there, rather than pain. He knows that he could really use some of the medical equipment that it contains, but the bag is lodged in a such a way that it's completely inaccessible to Scott in his current position, not without perhaps detaching his already-dislocated shoulder and reaching beneath the fallen beam with said-displaced arm to get what he needs.

There is another problem, however.

He can't breathe. He really can't. He remembers the rescue he's supposed to be affecting; fire in a large boarding house in the English countryside. Isolated, two centuries old, and too damned not-fireproof to be of suitable assistance to anyone when it decides to catch alight. Old wood, still slightly damp from a week-ago storm sure burns up fast when it wants to.

Breathing is good; breathing enables a person to live and do things properly, without falling in a heap and dying, because oxygen really is vitally important to be able to achieve those things.

But breathing and being able to not expire of oxygen deprivation is really quite difficult at times, especially when you've got a heavy, wood-splintered beam resting directly over your lower ribcage and back.

Scott is rather half-amused at the incoherence whirling around in his brain, wondering where on earth he's gone and gotten that notion of detaching his arm from. Probably from one of Alan's preposterous sci-fi books about the droid-whatever-they-ares. As much as the idea of him actually being able to see what he's doing with said arm once it's separated from his torso annoys him immensely, how exactly it is that he'd actually move it makes him dizzy with the round-and-round-in-circles perspective it presents.

Let's just keep it simple and say that he hurts right now. _A lot_.

Things are further complicated when the little air Scott can actually force into his spasming lungs is choked with smoke and the smell of burning wood and flesh through the pulverised material of his breathing apparatus. And yeah, Scott's the one with the burned legs and forearms from running through the flames; he can feel it now, something shocking.

To what extent his injuries are incapacitating him though, he is unsure. He's afraid to look or even pay attention, really. But it's not like he really can when he's got a face full of dust and smoke and there's the hot-as-effing-hell floor beneath his burning chest, but it's the principle of the thing that's stuck in his aching brain right now.

The pain that he is in is phenomenal; he knows that from the knowledge of what has occurred, but he is almost detached from it. It's neither surprising, nor a very good indication of how he's going physically; he knows that, but this is what happens when events don't play out the way they would like, and he and his brothers cop a goddamned fire-rescue when the Firefly is out of commission from the last one, only three days ago.

They'd moved in on foot, thinking that their handicap wouldn't affect them all that much. It had seemed like an easy rescue when it was called in. It really had, at least up until the point where the building collapsed two-hundred-year-old, half-tonne timber onto his head. It's always an easy rescue, of course, until something goes wrong.

The only good thing that has happened here, really, is that they were able to get the victims out before he went back in and got clobbered over the head. He can't really remember why he doubled back; that memory is rather fuzzy, but he does know that he's remarkably irritated that fate has apparently thought it would be marvellously funny to snare him in its jaws instead.

He can't help but be grimly amused; thinking about the sort of reaming out he's likely to get once he's out of here (and no, he's refusing to go down the alternate road, because Virgil and Gordon are busy ferrying the rescuees to the closest hospital, and he could very well be burned to a crisp by the time they get back) and Scott prefers to delude himself and continues to persuade his brain to think that he is an optimist, in both equally-likely scenario.

Has Scott mentioned yet that breathing is really hard? He thinks he has, but he's not completely sure. Scott suspects through the roaring pain in his spine, and the aching, gritty soot in his eyes and mouth, that at least three of his ribs are likely badly bruised, if not outright broken. The world is fuzzy from the lightning-sharp crack he's received to the back of his head, and though he really hates it when his world is out of order, there isn't really much he can do right now to make things balance right.

He's sore and a little bit frightened that he's run out of luck and he's not going to be able to get out of this alive, but he hangs onto his consciousness just that little bit tighter as he wills his brothers to get here quickly. He doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't get out of here alive. He doesn't want his little brothers to see him like this. He's not thinking straight, really; they're going to see him like this anyway, because he's going to have to be rescued by them, but at the same time, there's a difference to them seeing him alive to reassure them that he's going to be okay, and them seeing him dead on the floor, weak and empty. He doesn't want them to have to see that.

He tells himself that he needs to just hang on until Gordon and Virgil and the Big Green Bug come back to help get rid of this fire eating up the supports and floorboards beneath him. He just needs to hang on.

Scott chides himself for using the really stupid method of encouragement, courage-under-fire thing and whatnot to try and keep himself calm, but he still really, really wants to not be here, and if those statements don't make sense under the circumstances then he doesn't really care.

He cares even less when he sees what he does out of the corner of his eye.

It's taken Scott this long to realise that the room isn't quite as dim as he initially thought it was, nor is he completely alone in the building, as he previously assumed.

The layer of choking, roiling smoke might have shifted, or else he was just too out of it to properly realise, but he clearly notices his younger brother, John splayed out on the floor only feet away from him.

He'd heard the stuttered breathing first, but like anyone would, were they in Scott's situation, he assumed that it was his first. And he doesn't really remember opening his eyes at all, but now that he realises that he can see, he wants to just close them again and then wake up back at home, because he dearly wishes that he isn't seeing what he is right now.

He doesn't know how in the hell he could forget that his little brother was in the building with him when it started to crumble.

He knows now that this was the reason behind that feeling of foreboding that he felt before he got lost in his rather disorganised musings. Needless to say, he doesn't like it.

His heart racing; breath coming in harsh, shallow pants from both the beam and the panic that is rapidly constricting his chest, Scott painfully reaches up with his not-trapped hand to fumblingly reposition the dying headlamp that he's barely noticed is shining above him.

The formerly-powerful beam doesn't cut through the thickening haze than just feebly creep across the floorboards, but it is enough for him to realise that his brother isn't in all that much better shape than Scott himself. John's eyes are closed, and there's a rapidly swelling, nasty-looking gash painted across the side of his dirty, perpetually pale forehead, and it makes Scott's own battered skull beat again in sympathetic waves of agony.

Scott hasn't yet tried to make any noise; his ribs are screaming far too much for him to possibly be heard over them, but he tries anyway, choking on his own breath as he tries for adequate air beyond that of barely surviving.

His first attempt at speech only allows him a squeaky-sputter approximation that echoes deep in his chest. His mouth is so dry and his head is so sore that he's not sure he has the strength to try again. He'd spare himself an inkling of worry over what that could mean for him and his current state, but it's pushed to the back of his consciousness as John's pale blue eyes flutter open.

He's looking a damn sight more with it than Scott feels at the moment, but as John smiles wearily at him, it comes to Scott again that his brother really isn't in a good way, at least physically, as his gaze moves from John's face down to his back and legs.

There's a lot of blood.

It's vivid red and thick like paint, and it's all that keeps Scott's attention through his blurry eyes and pounding head. He raises his eyes again to John's face, tearing them away from the viscous liquid pooling on the floor around his John's lower extremities, and the shard of broken bone sticking through the leg of his brother's uniform trousers. John's eyes hold knowledge of his own predicament, and it's then that Scott realises that they're in a heap of crap deeper than he'd first assumed.

"Hi." John whispers, his voice ripping hoarsely across the short distance that separates them. "I'm glad you're awake, Scott."

His mouth tips in a bitter half-smile behind his own mask, and Scott is struck by anxiousness and frustration in equal amounts. John's quivering —but at the same time steel-strong— voice tells Scott that he's obviously given his brother a right scare up until now.

"Are you okay, Starman?" His old, childhood nickname for John slips out of his mouth inadvertently, his professionalism having fallen away when he realised that his brother was worse off than first thought. He hates seeing his brothers any less than okay, and in this situation, it just makes him even more anxious, especially when John is less than five feet away and is hurt and scared, though he's trying to suppress it. Scott can corral and banish hurt and scared pretty well, usually, but it makes it just that much harder this time around; when he actually more than half needs reassurance himself.

John's pale brows, almost completely hidden beneath the thick layer of dust that has been shaken from the ceiling, pucker inwards through the pain from his own injuries; meeting Scott's eyes with a look that just screams sarcasm, but then it dims when his astute brother realises that Scott doesn't exactly mean the question in that black-and-white way that he initially read it.

"I'll be alright, Scott." John whispers tiredly, though a grimace trembles through his body as he shifts uncomfortably against the floor. "I'm just…"

His brother's voice trails off, but Scott knows that the unspoken end of John's sentence is saying _I'm better now you're awake with me._

John is far from weak or pusillanimous, but he's always been that little bit more vulnerable than their siblings, somehow. Sure, he hides it behind the slightly argumentative and stubborn front that he presents to their father and the other boys, but Scott knows that it's only John's way of saying that he's just as strong as the rest of them, despite his relative inexperience on rescues, at least compared to him and the others.

It's why Scott came tearing back in here and up the stairs in the first place. It's not John's fault that they're trapped here in this tiny square-fallen box, both injured beyond movement; not in the slightest, and Scott knows that he'd have done the same thing as John, if he'd had the suspicion of someone being left behind.

It's just too damn bad that it appears that it was all in vain.

Scott's memory is coming back in jumpstarts and sputters now, and he remembers the fire chief, who'd taken lead of the teams on the ground and first floors of the east and west wings, while he and John took the top three calling him to say that the last victim that John'd come sprinting up to rescue had panicked and jumped out of an upstairs window. Scott doesn't know if the guy actually survived the drop to the ground; he'd been too busy sprinting in to rescue his brother, after hearing him cry out over the comms, presumably when John's leg twisted beneath him in the shaking stairwell, but he certainly hopes so.

The remainder of the fifth-floor ceiling had then fallen through as Scott had raced down the hall to his brother, and here they had both ended up.

John is looking wearily at Scott, having fallen silent following his trailed-off sentence, and he is getting paler by the second from both shock and the scarlet blood emerging sluggishly from the tear in his calf. Scott's brain suddenly connects the shattered pieces of his confusion with a shock-stained adrenaline jolt to put two and two together, and he knows that he needs to get free to stop the bleeding, otherwise he's going to end up losing his brother.

The ever-whitening of John's skin makes his plan of action simple; remove the beam and get to his brother, ASAP.

It's just a question of how much strength fear is going to lend to his searing limbs.

_##_

John's getting seriously worried about the situation now: not only for Scott's wellbeing, but for his own.

He knows that he's in a pretty huge predicament, considering the ice-sharp, laser-biting pain in his lower right leg is fading rather rapidly. He knows that it's not a good thing that he can barely move his head, or that his ears are ringing rather spectacularly. His limbs are shaking, and there's a roaring on the edge of his consciousness that means he can barely hear Scott telling him of the half-formed plan he has in progress to get them both out of here reasonably intact.

John is surprised at exactly how long he's been able to stay aware of the situation, especially considering his present condition, and he's glad, really, because it means that he knows that Scott knows that he's going to do whatever it takes to help them both. It also allows him to better concentrate on not passing out on his brother, not after being awake for so long and having to wait through the agonisingly long minutes that passed before Scott woke up in the first place.

That was an exercise for John, keeping his almost-legendarily sharp temper and half-smothered impatience under wraps. He wanted to order Scott to wake up, so he could make sure that his older brother was okay, that he wasn't going to have to tell their father that Scott had nicked off in the line of duty, because that would've just been unheard of. Scott never shirks his duty; whether in International Rescue, or the USAF, or even his over-developed sense of responsibility to John and his younger brothers. Never. John refused to believe that there was something irreparably wrong with Scott, and it paid off with much relief on his part when he heard his brother's movements.

It'd taken John a good while to gather enough strength to open his eyes, and by that point, Scott had obviously had enough time to hear the roaring of the flames that are rearing up below them, and take in the thickening smoke in the air enough to take stock of their precarious position.

John wonders, fuzzily, why the hell Virgil and Gordon are taking so damn long to get back from their ferry-trip to drop the victims at the hospital. They left ages ago, and John's really not sure how long he and Scott are going to last if the two of them don't get their asses back here fast.

John wants to prompt Scott to try his wrist-comm for contact between them and their younger brothers; but for some reason his mouth and tongue are no longer inclined to form words. John wonders why Scott hasn't thought of asking him to try his yet (not that it'd be practical because his got smashed when he fell down the collapsing stairs; apparently Brains didn't make them quite indestructible enough), but then an image of that beam laying directly over Scott's midriff; pinning him to the ground then pops up in his mind, and he realises that his brother can't reach his wrist, even if he remembers he has his watch on there.

Damn.

The paths of John's thought processes are growing increasingly murkier, and he's dizzy as a consequence, which in its turn leaves him incredibly confused. Aside from the cut he's got over his eyebrow, there really isn't any damage to his head that he can tell. When he first managed to stop himself coughing up half the lung that got lined with dust when his mask shifted off his face, he conducted a sort of hit-and-miss examination of his head and neck region, and deduced that though his collarbone and leg in particular hurt like a sonofabitch, he doesn't think he has a concussion.

John shifts uncomfortably, biting almost entirely through his bottom lip as his leg gives out a savage spike of agony through the plateaued numbness, and he has a terrible suspicion that that might just be what is at the root of his problems.

He's not entirely sure, due to the said-fuzziness of his thoughts, but that's the least of what's troubling him, in his mind at least.

He can't hear Scott anymore. He can't open his eyes either.

A moment of panic and the thrill of fear almost bursts through the shifting, roiling, bright-spark agony in his head, before everything goes black.

_##_

Scott's world is precariously split between two differing objectives; trying to get himself from under the God-cursed beam that's still keeping him from getting sufficient oxygen, and trying his best not to take his eyes off John in between episodes not-passing-out from the utter _ow_ flooding his entire being.

He really is stuck tight, and his useless left arm truly isn't helping matters. It's twisted so much that Scott's rather amazed he has any sort of cognitive process left, with the agony that he's supposed to be feeling when his shoulder is popped out of the socket the way it is. He guesses that it's something to do with the adrenaline that's now pumping through his whole body, but he still doesn't understand. Shock does that to you, he supposes.

He's nattering useless, irrelevant bits of information about his plans for extraction to John; his voice straining through the pain as he experimentally shifts his singed knees and burning ribs, trying to create enough friction to raise the beam and wriggle his way out. It's tough, and it's absolute hell on his battered spine (thankfully not broken, apparently), but he feels —or otherwise imagines— that he can feel a bit of give as he moves.

He accidentally wrenches his already-dislocated shoulder as he finally wriggles his arm loose from where it was pinned at his side, but he gasps in a deep, smoke-choked breath and somehow manages to keep moving through the whirring sparks shooting across his field of vision, and the thudding desperation of his heart as his flight instinct senses danger. The movement has re-aligned his shoulder anyway, and he's grimly pleased with that. It means that he's just that little bit more able to affect a rescue effort.

Time must be moving slower than it should be; a fact for which he is grateful, because he really is going to do his damned best to get John out alive. Even if it kills _him_.

Scott realises that he might just be fighting a losing battle, as he realises that he hasn't heard anything from his brother since John had told him in all his 'we both know we're in trouble, but I'll tell an obvious lie anyway' earnestness that he knew they were in a mess.

He gulps a deep breath beneath one of the more strident throbs from his concussed skull and tries to focus on John through the ever-encroaching smoke.

His brother's lavender-lidded eyes are closed again, and his face is almost translucent. It hits Scott again with a spear of terror that he's somehow forgotten about the compound break to John's leg with his concentration on getting loose. John has been losing blood the entire time Scott's been out and then some, and Scott's not yet done a damn thing about it.

Scott doesn't take any time for paralysing guilt and self-recriminations; those'll come later, _when _they get out of here. He's only focused on the fact that he needs to get to his brother right the hell now, and screw his stupid body if it decides it's going to put up any sort of fight.

It's the desperation he feels at needing to get to John that allows him to shimmy his way out of the tight space that he's been trapped into.

He loses a fair bit of skin from the small of his back in the process, and his ribs are sure as hell broken now, if they weren't already, but he somehow fights through the agony it brings. He wants to leave the tonne-heavy emergency pack behind him, where it's caught maddeningly on the nails that took parts of his hide for safekeeping. He's going to need a tetanus shot for sure, after this escapade.

It takes a mammoth effort, but with a lot of stubborn tugging to loosen the bag, and a truck-load of willpower to help, Scott somehow, miraculously manages to move the remaining feet to his sibling's side before he collapses with a suppressed grunt of pain. He's too exhausted to do anything else. But he has to. He doesn't know how he manages it, just that he does.

Leaning painfully on his protesting left arm, shedding the useless oxygen cylinder carelessly behind him, Scott reaches out with his good hand to press his fingers shakily against John's carotid artery, holding his breath and hoping that what he dreads isn't going to eventuate.

He almost gasps in relief as he feels a flutter beneath his fingertips. It is weak, and terrifyingly thready, but there is one, and to Scott, that's all that matters right now. His brother's forehead is clammy, and through the light of the still-surviving headlamp, he can see that John's pallor is even more alarming up close.

Steeling himself for movement, Scott grits his teeth as he arduously inches down and out alongside John's inert form, grimacing at both the pain and the sticky-warm sensation of blood as it soaks immediately through the leg of his uniform.

Examining the bloody mess that makes up John's fibula and tibia in the weak, smoky light, Scott bites his lip hard, trying to bite back panic as his muddle-y brain struggles to snap back into Field Commander mode and work out what he can do to stop the bleeding and support the limb, both without causing irreparable damage to his brother's limb.

Suddenly remembering his sash, Scott has the intent of removing it to use as a tourniquet to hopefully limit the amount of blood that is being released from beneath the torn skin. He has levered himself painfully to his knees and removed his pistol from the holster at his hip, before he suddenly recalls his fiery, dangling arm.

Coming to a decision, he drags the limb painfully into the loop it creates, hoping to God that he can do this one-handed.

He carefully slips his bad hand beneath his brother's head, and carefully unfastens the catch that holds John's sash together against his brother's own holster. It takes longer than he'd like, much longer, but he finally has something wrapped around his brother's leg that resembles a half-effective field bandage.

Shortly after he's settled John's leg into something resembling straight, Scott's surroundings begin to spin somewhat alarmingly with the exertion and worry, and though he tries to suppress it, his stomach thinks it's a brilliant time to eject the contents of his lunch over the wood of the rapidly-warming floor. He manages to miss John's wound by scant inches, but in the midst of his heaving he is somewhat distracted by the intense burn that suddenly registers beneath his bracing palm.

And then, as if to add more to the stupid situation they've found themselves in, out of the corner of Scott's eye, the half-forgotten bag taunts him for the effort he just expended on moving himself and John. He curses.

##

John's consciousness comes back to him all at once; muzzy and rather lightheaded still, but he's still awake, nonetheless.

He takes in a sharp breath as the previously-shadowed pain makes a return, and then coughs raggedly as the smoke leaks through his ineffective mask. His eyes open for the second time, only to meet the tiredly-concerned ones of his older brother, right in his field of vision.

"Scott?" John croaks, baffled. "How'd you get o'er here?"

His brother's eyes are dim and unfocused, despite his proximity to John's half-opened eyes and spinning head, and John instantly worries, though it's not quite as bad as he thinks, possibly, when he registers Scott's answer.

"I flew." Scott says dryly, trying for calm and not-desperate, despite the knowledge that he holds. He lifts the half-full water bottle he's just screwed the cap from up to John's mouth, and he takes a grateful swig to wash away the dust, before shaking his head at his brother, slightly queasy for some unknown reason.

John might not know exactly what it is that Scott is keeping from him, but he tips his mouth in an approximation of a smirk for the probable stupidity of his question, and settles for a tired sigh in place of pressing his older brother for long-in-coming details.

"Do you know why I blacked out?" he croaks, curiosity warring with the desire to prevent himself from hearing the worst-case scenario, because he assumes that by now, Scott has most likely examined him and come to some sort of conclusion as to his state of health.

Scott's good hand comes up to card through his matted, sweaty hair, and John watches his mouth in absent-minded interest as it tips from side to side, apparently chewing over the gentlest way to answer, because John knows that he's far from healthy at the moment.

"You've a fairly sizeable gash on your head; I've sealed it with one of the swift-patches, and we won't know for sure until we've gotten you to hospital and x-rays, but I think you've pulled the muscles along the left-hand side of your neck and down your back." He swallows against the searing, ashy air, and tries to act cheerful.

John eyes his brother as Scott takes another shallow, too-quick breath, and as his brother's unbound right arm wraps around his torso, gasping weakly, John frowns. Scott must have done something to his chest; probably the ribs, but what with the way he was nearly pancake on the floor, John isn't surprised.

He continues to talk though, despite the pain, and John is torn between telling Scott to lie the hell down before he faints, and wanting to know what it is that is hanging so perilously close to falling off the end of Scott's sentence and dropping headlong into John's consciousness like ten-tonne granite.

Thankfully, he's not kept waiting too long.

When the words finish inching through Scott's clenched-together teeth, John's not surprised he fainted in at all, nor why his leg is suddenly ablaze with fire as he tries to shift off of his falling-asleep arm. He wonders suddenly why there's a jerkily-placed IV line jabbed into the back of his hand, and why exactly Scott has a roll of half-unwrapped bandage forgotten in his lap.

Scott seems almost too-tense as he looks him over, even considering where they are right now. John's not quite with it enough to work out why, but he closes his eyes as he visualises involuntarily how disgusting a break his leg has at the moment. He rides out the wave of nausea that thought induces with his eyes tight shut, not opening them again until he's sure he's not going to upchuck and subsequently choke on it.

Scott hasn't moved other than to lay his callus-roughened hand over John's forehead, but John swats it wearily away, too focused with the idea of shifting into an upright position in place in his head to care about whether he's spiking a temperature.

Scott protests rather vocally about him completing this particular mission, but if they are going to die, as the heat rising through the floor beneath them appears to be indicating, he'd rather his older brother be in relative comfort as his life slips away, rather than gasping as his injured ribs stretch and separate under the pressure of breathlessness and pain.

It's hell personified to both fight against Scott's restraining arm and shift with the least movement to his busted leg, but John is nothing if not determined.

Muttering something barely audible, Scott obviously figures it's less of a fight to let him figure out how dumb the move is himself, than it would be to argue, and John has to agree; at least until he manages to get into an upright position by dragging himself up on the bit of stairway that is settle conveniently next to him.

Ignoring Scott's look of impressed surprise at his success, John leans heavily against the fallen wood and puts his least-achy arm out as an order for his older brother to hand over the ace-wrap.

In short-but-seemingly-long order, Scott's ribs are wrapped satisfactorily, and John figures that it's probably a good idea for him to lay down before he blacks out again. He figures that the synthesised bio-pouch that he's been given is stopping him from completely dying of blood-loss, but he still knows that he's at serious risk of infection, both blood and bacterial if his leg isn't cleaned and properly set sometime soon. He already feels sick and lethargic, probably from the dehydrating effect their surroundings have, but he's not sure if that's entirely to do with his current condition, or the solid representation of fear that he can now clearly hear roaring barely fifty feet away from them.

Scott, on the other hand, is remarkably alert considering, but knowing him as well as he does, John can still see that his older brother is as tense as a coiled spring.

A thought, previously touched upon, but obviously, terrifyingly forgotten in the mix of dizzy and hurt, hits John square in the chest, and he wonders why he hasn't remembered it before.

"Scott," he mutters, and grabs a fistful of his brother's trouser-leg —the only thing he can reach from the position he's in. "Have you tried contacting Virgil? Surely he and Gordon are back from the drop-off now…?"

Even before the words have escaped his lips, Scott is shaking his head; a wince tracing itself around his mouth and between his eyes. "Not happening, John. My communicator's fried, and I've already tried it and yours, multiple times. We're stuck in here."

John might have been alarmed at how long he was out, but now he can hear the despondency in his older brother's tone, and that's when he realises that he's truly afraid of what's going to happen to them.

Scott usually so in control, so sure, with so many whirling shadows of plans and counter-solutions and resolving decisions in his head that it's almost empty air that John feels when his brother says that last sentence.

John's so used to Scott having a resolution to every single problem they come across that he's faced with the fact that his brother's not as infallible as he had always led himself to believe. Scott has never let on that he might just be as human as the rest of them, despite John and the others heartfelt and joking claims to the contrary.

It's truly a scary concept.

What's somehow even scarier is what Scott does next.

John is surprised that even with a head injury, busted-up ribs and a damaged shoulder, as well as whatever else his sibling is concealing, that Scott is still so together. John watches in consternation as his brother draws the two insulated blankets from the pack at his side, as well as the half-gallon water-bottle, and then drenches them with liquid. Passing one to him where he's lying flat on the floor again, Scott helps John to tie it over his mouth and nose to create a probably short-lived mask against the choking-thick, boiling air.

He's so calm in the face of fire (literally), and John, as he often does, gets that flash of respect and awe for the man he calls his only older brother. Yeah, he knows that he's only human, Scott Tracy, but he still is composed and business like enough to be able to do what needs to be done.

An echoing roar, far too close for comfort suddenly shatters their tentative breaths of _I can't believe that this is actually happening to us_, leaving the both of them to look at each other with something almost-terrified, although neither of them in a hundred years would ever really admit it.

The air is now so thick that they can no longer see each other's faces, and John's struck by the irresistible need to take hold of any part of his brother that he can, just to know that he's here for Scott, as Scott has been there for him for his entire life.

There are no words they can say that either of them do not know. All John can do is grip Scott's good wrist iron-tight and unbreakable as the pre-burn-carbon and heat make a smouldering appearance on the distant, east-side wall of their ten-by-ten foot death-trap.

##

If Scott had a gun right now he'd want two bullets; one for him and one for John.

He can see his brother watching the newly-appeared flames creep along the distant floor, devouring the fuel the boards present as though watching a particularly venomous snake get ready to strike. Scott would do anything to help John escape the pain of being burned alive, especially when he knows how much his brother loathes fire, but really, there's nothing he can do but wait for John to fall asleep.

By some stupid, cursed, terrible stroke of bad luck to add to their thus-far un-toppable run, Scott had at the start of the mission, somehow managed to pick up the kit that had missed re-stocking at the end of their last rescue. While the kit had enough bandages to keep a mummy happy, and the inflatable splints had been invaluable for his newly-discovered wrist fracture, and John's leg, the stocks of strong-enough pain meds and sedatives had been perilously low.

He'd taken the opportunity while examining his younger brother, knowing that they are (still) highly unlikely to get out of here alive, considering the unknown whereabouts of their siblings, to give John one of the last-remaining sedatives.

He knows that it's a bit of a risk; should they actually happen to get a miracle and become the rescued, the possibility that John does actually have a head injury beneath that cut, and giving him the injection might worsen it. But on the flipside, it means that if they are to die, John won't be aware of his skin melting away from his bones.

That will be Scott's torture only.

He's taken some aspirin, which again is foolish considering his own concussed state, but at the same time, he can barely stand the pain at the moment and he needs some sort of anaesthetising agent if he's going to be able to bear anything beyond insanity.

He's over-thinking again, which Mom told him endlessly not to do, and Father encouraged; saying that he needs to be an analytic thinker to be able to make good business decisions, but Scott's always tried to listen to his parents, especially when it comes to protecting his brothers.

John's breathing, although still stuttering slightly, has deepened, and Scott knows that his little brother has slipped into sleep.

Scott keeps rubbing his fingers over John's clasping hand though, because if anything he wants pleasant dreams for his brother if he's sleeping, and that's how Mom always calmed him when he was little.

Scott's eyes are drooping now, despite the hungry orange flames that are now dancing on the edges of his vision. He's got no more adrenaline left to spare, so the sight of them inching ever closer to his lax, barely-aching legs receives barely any reaction from the exhausted pilot.

He's done all he can in this instance to protect John; there's nothing anyone can do to him now to take that away from him. Not ever.

He's nearly asleep himself, lost in murky almost-dreams of smoke and bonfires and barbeques on the beach, when suddenly there's a loud, hissing, spattering noise that quite breaks the steady illusion of sleepiness and comfortable warmth.

Funnily enough, he hears numerous pairs of heavy, booted footsteps, and terse, tight voices that he cannot understand, though he puts in all the effort he can.

Clearly he's had too much to drink, because surely Gordon doesn't think he's gone deaf yet, does he?

Virgil's voice is here too; loud and frantic, but still smooth as a river-hewn stone. Suddenly, memories come rushing back, and his eyes jerk beneath his lids; too heavy to open.

They need to get out; they need to leave. Father doesn't need to lose all four of his older sons. Scott's knowing enough to be sure that he'll barely survive losing one of them, let alone two, or three, or...

Scott tries to open his mouth, to warn his brothers to get out, to leave them or just take John if they have to save one of them, but there are hands grasping his limbs, turning him this way and that, and the sheer terror he feels at the idea of his little brothers being trapped here too; coupled with the overwhelming pain of newly-spasming back and legs sends him flailing into terrified unconsciousness.

_There is no way out._

##

John moves his eyelids fuzzily; overly tired and very much confused at why everything feels so damn heavy.

A bolt of alarm shoots through him as the immediately-recent memories of what happened on the rescue emerge into his consciousness, clear-cut as diamonds and as sharp-edged as razor.

"Scott!"

His yelp of mingled pain and the accompanying jolt of fright for his older brother's welfare jerks his eyes fully open, drawing a nimbus of lamplight and shuttered blinds into his vision.

"Scott's just fine, son."

John's gaze, still unfocused, lands on an indistinct form at the side of his bed, only just hearing the warm, joyous love and relief in his father's voice, searching visually and aurally for the one person that truly matters right now.

Reflexively, John goes to reach out to his father, in order to force him to help him up and let him find Scott, but is stopped in his tracks by both an impeding obstacle and the blaze of white-hot agony that races from his head all the way down the side of his torso.

Hands rest lightly on his shoulders, pressing him back onto the bed beneath him, and the soft but firm voice continues quietly. His half-open eyes have confirmed that it's his father talking to him, but John won't be satisfied until he can see and hear with his own senses that Scott is alive and well.

A weak, tired and hoarse voice answers his mentalloop-repeat question, even as John's throat goes dry and he coughs sharply from deep in his chest.

The rattling sensation there is far from pleasant, but he's focused on other things.

As his eyes whip around to his left, wide open and anxious now, John is every-which-way relieved to see that Scott is right there in the bed next to him; pale as all hell with arm and head bandaged, but all that John sees is the tired but reassuring smile. He sees that familiar grin, and all he cares about is that Scott is alive.

They both are.

No more agonising; no more of either of them pretending that they're going to be okay, that they're going to be just fine, because they really are now.

They're apparently pretty much together super-glued and humpty-dumpty together-again, and suddenly John doesn't really care that his idiot older brother made him go to sleep early, when they made a pact as teenagers that they'd stay up until exactly the same time, in spite of their mother's orders. There's no need to say the things that should've been said but never will be now, and that they both need to kick Virgil and Gordon's collective asses for saving them but putting their hinds on the line in the process.

They're both safe and healing, and relatively whole; and that's all that matters.


End file.
